


First Meetings

by Luraia



Series: Little Jack [2]
Category: Mary Poppins (Movies)
Genre: And probably most everyone else, Beginnings, But the story is about those two, Gen, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luraia/pseuds/Luraia
Summary: Bert meets Jack for the first time.  Jack does not make a good first impression.





	1. The Vandal

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is probably going to be one of those 5 times plus one types of stories, only I don't know that it will be 5 (I currently have 4 plotted out in my head, including this first one, but that could change), but if I were going to give it an alternate summary, it'd be something like 'five times Bert thought the worst of Jack, and the one time he learned the truth'. Also, this first chapter fell on the slightly short side (at least compared to my other works), but I'm thinking each part will be exactly as long as it needs to be, no longer and no shorter, and this is the length this part needed.

It was the sort of frosty spring morning that children reveled in after a long winter, and as likely as not would lead to sore throats and runny noses, for spring had only just peaked its head up to entice youngsters outdoors to play when winter had not quite let go of his grip over the park.  It was sunny, and the less shy flowers had already stuck up their heads and all the trees that weren’t in full leaf were certainly considering it, and birds were warbling for their true loves and some had already begun the satisfactory practice of nesting.

Bert should have been a sweep that day, for it was exactly the sort of day that sweeps were in demand; chilly enough that people wanted their fires but not so chilly that they were willing to put up with the smoke, and many a person would decide _now_ was the perfect time for a bit of cleaning.  It was a fine day though, and one of the perks of being Bert was picking and choosing what he wanted to be, and on this day he wanted to be an artist.  So he buttoned up his coat against the frosty chill, gathered his chalk, and strolled to the park where he hoped to earn a coin or two, or at least to enjoy the day immensely.

He did find a crowd, but mostly children who tended to pay him in compliments and interest rather than coins.  He said hello to those he knew, and then to those he didn’t because it was that sort of pleasant morning.  Children liked to gather around Bert (and so did adults, but they pretended they had some other purpose to be there) because once they got him talking, Bert would share the most marvelous stories, or teach them the funniest songs.  If they really got him going, they might even get a bit of dancing, and that was the best of all.

This was not a singing and dancing sort of morning, and most of the children were too caught up in releasing all the energy the winter had forced them to restrain, and so only came over for a moment to admire his artwork, say hello, and then run off again.  Michael Banks stayed the longest, long after his sister had lost interest (once she was sure there was no chance of jumping into the art).  It seemed the boy had developed a real interest in drawing and wanted to know how Bert could get a picture to come out so clearly with just a few strokes of chalk.

“Is it magic?” he asked.

“All art is magic,” Bert answered promptly. “Didn’t you know?  It’s taking what’s inside and showing it to the world.” 

Then Michael was absolutely thrilled when Bert let him have a go with his chalk, a very rare honor, for chalk might be cheap but Bert could ill afford to lose his supply at the rate all the children of the park would use it up.

Michael very clearly felt his privilege, and set about to create the most wonderfully magic masterpiece that his youthful skill could create.  Bert let him at it, after he’d given his pointers, and it was so amusing to watch the boy imitating his own quick strokes, tongue stuck out in concentration and a happy glow about his face, that Bert almost forgot about getting on with his own work.  He did, of course, both in the hopes of enticing money into his hat and to allow Michael his secrets, for Michael clearly wanted to wait until he was done to share his work.  When Jane came over to see what they were doing, he practically threw himself over his picture, coming close to smudging it in his haste to cover it up.

“You will show me when it’s done, won’t you?” Jane asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.  She didn’t ask for her own chalk, though.  Bert wasn’t sure if it was disinterest or a sort of sisterly sense that this was Michael’s special space.  He’d have let her if she’d asked.  Instead she wandered off to look for the hidden secret blossoms hiding about the park and Michael finished his drawing.

Only, just as Michael leapt up, his face aglow with accomplishment, before going all anxious and shy as he clearly worked himself up to sharing his art, there came a great ruckus across the park.

“Here you!” shouted an angry man’s voice, and before Bert or Michael knew what was happening, a boy ran right down the middle of their art.  That was bad enough, but he was also covered head to toe in soot, and barefoot besides, which was worse than shoes for smudging chalk.  And, almost as though the boy sought to do the most damage possible, he startled into skidding to a stop at the sight of Bert and Michael’s shocked faces.  And the skid slid right across Michael’s work.

What had been a decent, if untrained attempt at a sunset over London’s rooftops (the lines were quite wobbly but the contrast of light and dark was surprisingly effective), was now a sooty smear across the bottom and with a great black footprint right over the brightest bit of the sun.

Bert’s work wasn’t much better, what wasn’t now covered in footprints or smudged was sprinkled liberally with soot from the boy’s run.

Now Bert was not one to begrudge a person some good clean soot.  Nor was he one to look down on a boy for being barefoot or having threadbare (and dirty) clothes.  And while having a few hours’ worth of work demolished in a moment was pleasant for no one, Bert understood that accidents happened, particularly when the one committing the mishap was a child.

What he did not appreciate was a complete lack of manners.  Not a single ‘sorry’ did the intruder utter.  Not even an ‘oops’.  He looked down at his calamitous handiwork, or rather, footwork, and he _laughed_.

And then the man who had shouted ‘Here, you!’ Shouted from much closer, “You dirty little ragamuffin!  Just you wait ‘til I get my hands on you!”

And still smiling as though he’d done something clever, the boy took off once more.

To give him some credit, he didn’t complete his path across the artwork, but that could well have had to do with Bert and Michael, the first who was frowning and the second whose shocked expression was morphing into something approaching murderous, who he’d have had to run right by.  Instead he ran over the grass, pursued by a large, lumbering man in a fine waistcoat who looked far too red in the face to be healthy…except for the streaks of black soot that made him look quite fierce.  Certainly the boy didn’t wait to be caught.

Once the scene had passed, both artists looked at their hard work.  Of course, Bert was used to seeing his work destroyed; that was the nature of chalk art after all, but Michael was absolutely devastated.

“Oh no,” said Jane, who had of course seen the whole commotion and had come over to join them.  “And it has such wonderful colors, too.”

“Hey, now,” said Bert, “This isn’t the end of the world.  Why, this could be a new style of art!  Look how realistic the soot captures the…er…”  He wasn’t entirely sure what Michael’s picture was supposed to be.  And Michael was not consoled in the least.

“Sunsets don’t have soot,” he said, his voice thick with what he’d insist was rage, but probably had as much to do with the way his eyes were shimmering.

“Well, and why shouldn’t they?” Bert asked.  “Why, sometimes mistakes like these are just the thing you need to make something wonderful and new!”

“Mistakes?” Michael demanded.  “He laughed!  He was glad he did it.”

This seemed all too true to be denied, and for a moment Bert was stumped.  Then he brightened and said, “Well, you will just have to make a new picture.”

“We haven’t time,” Jane said, her voice filled with sympathy and regret.  “We’re expected home soon.”

“And who says you can’t finish your work at home?” Bert asked.  Michael’s eyes stopped shimmering at that, for the very idea confused him, and confusion will turn away tears every time.

“But…we can’t take the pavement and chalk into the house,” he said, “…can we?”

“Not the pavement maybe, but the chalk, why, nothing easier!  Just you find yourself a bit of paper, and the next time we see each other you can show it to me.  And it won’t wash away with the next rain!”

“You mean…I can have some chalk to take home just for me?” Michael asked, his voice alight with surprise and hope.

“Of course you can,” said Bert.  “We aspiring artists need to help each other out, don’t we?”

“Is Michael an artist?” Jane asked with great astonishment.  Clearly Bert was an artist…but her little brother?

“Anyone with that much feeling inside could be nothing else,” Bert answered.  Which the children didn’t entirely understand, but they accepted anyway.

“But what a horrible, dirty little boy,” Jane remarked, looking in the direction he had run.  They could still see sooty footprints all across the grass.

“I hope that mean old man does catch him and…and…” but Michael couldn’t quite figure out what horrible fate he wanted to wish on the boy.

“Hey now, no need for that,” said Bert, who, in spite of everything, rather hoped the boy wasn’t caught.  Even if he deserved something.

“Well, he should have to go to his room with no supper,” Jane declared decisively.

As Bert had rather more experience than Jane in children who do not have a banker for a father, he rather feared that Jane’s punishment might well be in the boy’s future, and too many days of his past, but just then didn’t seem to be the time to bring it up.  Instead, he carefully helped Michael pick out the colors he absolutely needed for his art.  Michael was so careful in his choosing only exactly what he needed, in fact, that Bert found himself shoving half a dozen more into his hands ‘just in case’.

“And you will show me the finished work?” Bert asked.

“When it’s finished,” Michael promised.

Both children left with smiles on their faces, and Bert smiled to watch them go.  Then he looked back at his own ruined art, and the frown returned.  He knew most of the children who came to this park, from all walks of life, but he didn’t know that boy and he rather wished he did.

A boy like that, clearly up to mischief and with no concept of manners or compassion or…or respect for other people’s hard work, clearly needed to be taken in hand.  Bert was only human, after all, and though he’d steered Michael and Jane away from their wishes for revenge, in his heart he _did_ hope he’d cross paths with the boy again so that he could teach him a lesson or two.  He wouldn’t be cruel (certainly nothing physical, as the pursuing man clearly intended).  And he’d never deny anyone a meal, as Jane had suggested.  A little intimidation certainly wouldn’t hurt the boy, though, and was less than he deserved.  Perhaps a bit of labor and a tongue lashing would teach him to laugh at ruining other people’s work.

In fact, the boy may well have done Bert a favor.  Several of the park’s inhabitants were sorry enough about the whole mess that Bert probably got more coins out of them than their appreciation of the art would have done.

He did follow the sooty footprints later, once he’d fixed what he could (he wasn’t lying to Michael about using the ruin to create something new) and picked up his chalk and his hat, but he lost the path long before he found the boy.  He didn’t see the angry man again either.

In the end, he shrugged, then went to fetch his bicycle.  It was about time to don his leerie hat and light the streets of London.  Rude little art vandals would have to wait for another day.

 

 

 


	2. The Bully

Bert would not call himself a charity worker.  He had enough trouble looking after himself.  He didn’t have money to spare to hand out to the poor.  It was not Bert who fed the starving, or clothed the ill-dressed, or gave shelter to the homeless.

So perhaps he had some little friends from the local orphanage that he would visit from time to time; that wasn’t charity, that was friendship.  He had friends all over, and some just happened to be orphans.  And if he sometimes took one of the older boys out for the day to see what it was like to do a man’s job, well, he’d had someone to show _him_ the ropes; it was only fair he passed on the favor.

It had crossed his mind, from time to time, to take on a proper apprentice.  But then, Bert never did anything by half measures.  He wouldn’t just be passing on a profession (or five).  He’d be the one responsible for seeing that the boy had good, clean clothes, healthy and filling meals, discipline, and schooling.  And that kind of responsibility was not Bert.  He was happy to hand the boys back at the end of the day, where they probably got better than he’d be able to give.

So as he whistled and walked to the gate leading into the orphanage, he had no intention of doing more than asking after a friend or two (had Freddie lost that cough?  Was Angus staying out of trouble?) and perhaps offering to take one of the boys out for the day.

He was not expecting to walk in on a wild brawl.

With all the noise they made it sounded like a battle, but really there were only two rolling around on the ground and four more cheering them on.  It must have only just begun because, despite the loud noise the children were making, no one had stormed out of the building to break it up.

“Hey!” Bert shouted, not angrily but loudly.  Had a passing stranger tried this, it would probably have done little to stop the fight.  Bert, however, was a recognized authority among the children, and his sudden appearance, coupled with his strong voice, was enough to cause the onlookers to scatter.

This still might not have stopped the two boys on the ground, but the sudden silence and abandonment of their mates did seem to cause at least one of the fighters, the bigger of the two, to take notice and instead of punching the other boy, as he’d clearly been gearing up to do, he just held his shirt in a tight fist, leaning on top of him, while looking up at Bert with wide eyes.

Which is when the second miscreant bit his opponent in the arm.

Unfair tactic perhaps, but effective, as the boy trying to pin him down howled and let go.  Bert didn’t see exactly what the boy did next, but in the next moment the still howling boy had fallen backwards and the little biter was on his feet and would have made his escape had Bert been any slower.  Unfortunately for the boy, Bert had him by the back of his shirt before he could disappear.  Or, perhaps, fortunately for him.  Miss Minchin did not take kindly to having to chase down troublemakers and the end would probably have been worse for him.

“What is going on here?” her shrill voice demanded as she stormed from the building.

“It’s Jack, Miss,” cried the boy on the ground, “He attacked me, look, he bit my arm!”  The boy Bert held made no attempt to explain his side but scowled so fiercely he looked half wild.

“Little savage,” Miss Minchin muttered quite audibly and Bert almost felt sorry for this Jack.  In Bert’s experience, fights were never so simple as ‘he attacked me’.  Clearly Miss Minchin was of the same mind, for she followed up her muttering by speaking sternly to both boys.

“Fighting, for whatever reason, is forbidden.  I don’t care who started it.  You are both in for it, _and_ your friends, don’t think I didn’t see them run!”

“Yes, Miss,” the boy on the ground said contritely.  The boy Bert held still said nothing.

“Well go on, inside, my office.  And you better be perfect little gentlemen when I get there or it will be the worse for you!”

Bert let Jack go.  The boy hadn’t actually tried to escape anyway, beyond that first moment when Bert had nabbed him.  In fact, he was surprisingly docile for the underhanded little attacker Bert had seen only a minute before.  His docility didn’t prove to be an act either, for he walked calmly into the building of his own volition, followed quickly by the other boy who groaned the whole way with an exaggerated limp.

“Oh, that boy,” groaned Miss Minchin, once the two young fighters were gone.  “I don’t see how we can keep him, I really don’t.  You know my opinion on shipping our children away to our colonies, but this might be the exception!”

“Surely he can’t be that bad,” Bert said.  “A newcomer, is he?”

“Came from a cottage; they said they were too full but I am of a mind they had enough of the little savage.  Do you know, I caught him stealing bread?  I work myself to the bone making sure the boys all have their fair share at mealtime, and I see him snatch a loaf right out of Angus’s hands.  And it wasn’t out of hunger, you can be sure.  Do you know what he did with it?”

“What?” Bert asked.

“Threw it away!  Never even saw where it went.  Of course I got Angus a fresh loaf, and I told Jack he’d lost his own for a week, and he just smiled!”

“Well, boys will be naughty from time to time,” Bert suggested, though he had to admit the idea of someone stealing another person’s food didn’t sit well with him.  He had too much experience over the years of going without to overlook that kind of cruelty.  There seemed to be something seriously _wrong_ with the sort of person who would toss out someone else’s good food and then smile about it.

But Miss Minchin, eager to have a sympathetic ear to vent to, wasn’t finished yet.

“He incites the other boys, too.  I’ve had more fights to break up this last week, than the entire month before he came!  And he has some sort of…of spell over the younger ones.  They follow him around like he’s the pied piper…and I just know he’s going to lead them all to bad.  And the ones as don’t follow him seem twice as inclined to quarrel.”

“Well, I suppose it’s good he’s making friends?” Bert suggested, a bit doubtful of this himself.  This Jack didn’t sound like the sort of boy the younger ones should be looking up to.

“Cultivating a gang, more like it,” Miss Minchin said with a sniff.  “That boy!  I send him out with a sweep to learn a bit of professional skill, and what does the boy do?  He dumps a bucket of soot over poor Mr. Wilson’s head!  On purpose, mind!”

“Well, you know what I’ve said on the matter of children being taken on as sweeps,” Bert said.  “It isn’t healthy for them.”  Though he had to admit, dumping over a bucket of soot just sounded like pure naughtiness, rather than rebellion.

“Jack is just very lucky he wasn’t carted off for that alone!” Miss Minchin answered, not ready to give up listing Jack’s transgressions, “He won’t answer his teachers during his lessons.  He disappears when he’s supposed to be working.  He makes a mess of other children’s chores when they _are_ working.  I am really quite ready to send him off to be Australia’s problem!”

“Now, Miss Minchin,” said Bert, “This Jack sounds like a troubled sort, and no mistake, but there’s no call to send him away.”  He’d heard rumors about what happened to those children who were shipped off, and he knew she had too, because he got most of the rumors from her.  She was a rare woman, Miss Minchin, because she actually _cared_.  Seeing her still stormy expression, perhaps in this instance, she cared a bit too much.  Wanting to steer her away to calmer thoughts, Bert decided now was the perfect time to bring up why he’d come.

“I wanted to know how little Freddie was doing.  And I thought I might take one of the boys out for the day, show them what a hard day’s work looks like.”

“Oh, Freddie was doing better.  I even let him go out with some of the older boys for their trial apprenticeship.  He’s young to be an apprentice, but it’s better they learn young how to help themselves, for there’s only so much I can do once they’re away from here.  And he did want to go so…only perhaps it was too much.  He had to be put to bed for a week after with the worst cough he’s had in a long time.”

“As bad as that?” asked Bert with some alarm, for Freddie was known for his coughs and troubled breathing.  Sometimes it seemed that even a change in weather would set him off.

“He’s much better now,” Miss Minchin was quick to reassure him.  "Here, why don’t you go to the kitchen to wait, and I’ll go find some deserving boy who could use a day out.”  Then her face clouded over once more.  “And I can tell you one sorry little boy who won’t be the one.”

So Bert went to the kitchen, where the cook sat him down with some tea and fresh bread, and Miss Minchin stormed off to take care of the two fighters.  The boy who finally joined him with a shy but excited smile was one of Bert’s usuals.  Sometimes, Bert thought Miss Minchin threw the same three boys at him again and again in the hope that he’d decide to officially take on one of them after all.

“Hello, Angus,” Bert said cheerfully.  “Up for a bit of hard labor?”

“Oh yes, very hard labor,” Angus agreed, with a bit of a wink, because Miss Minchin was standing behind him.

“There will be no busking today, mind,” said Miss Minchin, all too knowing in what sort of jobs Bert was known to take the children to do.  “The only reason I’m letting him go is because he wasn’t in the fight, and he needs the right sort to look up to.”

That Miss Minchin meant _Bert_ when she said that, still puzzled Bert as much as it elated him.  He tried to keep honest and to find the joy in life, the magic, but there were few who would look at him and say ‘that man should be a role model for our youth’.

“Angus,” said Bert, allowing his disappointment to color his words, “Were you fighting again?”

“Was Billy and Jack who were fighting,” Angus said towards the ground, some of his excitement fading in the wake of Bert’s clear disapproval.  Bert hadn’t noticed Angus at the fight, but it had been very chaotic to start and Bert had been giving the two on the ground most of his attention.

“Watching and doing nothing is the same thing as doing,” Bert pointed out gently, then said, “Well, but that’s behind us now.  Let’s get going while the day is young!”

“Just take this, for his dinner,” Miss Minchin insisted, pressing a couple of coins on Bert, “And you mind Mr. Alfred, Angus, or I’ll rethink your punishment.”  And she shooed them out the door.

Bert wasn’t a sweep that day, not with a child in tow (he meant what he said about children being sweeps), so he had decided it was a good day for odd jobs and in the end he and Angus spent most of the morning re-painting a fence.

“Oh,” Angus said, when presented with the fence.  “Couldn’t we go and sing in the park or…or make kites to sell?  This is just the same sort of thing Miss Minchin has us do.”

“Now you listen here, Angus,” said Bert, “There’s nothing the matter with a bit of good clean labor.  It stretches the muscles and it’s good for the soul.  ‘Sides, there’s nothing more enjoyable!”

“Enjoyable?” asked Angus with great astonishment.  “It’s work!”

“Well, if you look at it from one direction, I suppose it is,” Bert said.  “But as a young lady once told me, ‘find the element of fun, and every chore becomes a game’.”

“How can a chore be a game?” Angus demanded.

“Well,” said Bert, thinking about it a moment, then dipping his brush into the paint.  “Perhaps…perhaps this isn’t a fence.  It’s a great white whale and…and it’s trapped in this garden and the sun is drying it all out, but if we’re quick about it, we can wet it down.  Mind, we can’t miss a single spot, or we know the whale will dry up and die, and that would be a real tragedy.”

“A great white whale?” Angus laughed.  But he did dip his own brush and they got started.  The story advanced as they went along, until they were half convinced they really were saving a poor whale, and they had to fend off the crabs and the sun and then they had to make up a song to console the poor whale who was very depressed and, all in all, Angus actually seemed sorry when the job was done.

“And that’s one whale saved,” Bert announced as he collected their payment.  “Let’s see about a bite to eat.”

It was during the bite to eat in the park that the boy Jack came up again.  Bert hadn’t liked what he’d heard about the boy, and was a bit worried about his influence on young Angus.  Angus had a history of being led astray, wanting to be liked by the older kids, and Bert didn’t like that Angus had been part of Jack’s fight.

“I hear there’s a new boy…Jack,” said Bert to bring the subject around.  Angus clearly knew he had Bert’s disapproval because he squirmed slightly in his seat.  Trying to put the boy more at ease, Bert didn’t mention the fight again, but instead brought up one of the other things Miss Minchin had mentioned.  “I hear he stole your loaf of bread?”

Angus, not put at ease at all, stared down at his feet.  “Yes… I suppose he did.”

“You know, that kind of doing, taking someone else’s food, that’s not right.  It may seem small now, but little thefts lead to bigger ones and that path leads down a dark path with dark endings.”

“I know,” Angus said, his voice oddly squeaky as he continued to stare at his shoes.  Bert frowned, not expecting the boy to be _that_ affected by Jack’s actions.

“I don’t ever want to see you behaving like Jack,” Bert continued.  “Making trouble, just to make trouble is bad enough but stealing, fighting…I’ve known that sort before.  They try to hurt those who are smaller than them, just to feel bigger.  Well, they aren’t bigger, just meaner.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” mumbled Angus, and then, to Bert’s astonishment, Angus burst into tears and just about tackled Bert in a tight hug, mumbling incoherent words into his jacket.

“Hey now,” Bert said, patting him gently, though he was still mystified by this reaction.  “No need for all this.  I know you’re a good one, Angus.”  But for the longest time, Angus just hugged him tighter.  Still at a loss, Bert tried patting his head, and then put his hand warmly on the boy’s shoulder until he was done.

Angus finally calmed, and then he looked Bert right in the eyes, like he wanted to say something.  What he finally did say, though, was “What odd jobs are we doing this afternoon?”

“Let’s see where the road takes us,” said Bert.

When the afternoon drew to a close, Angus was exhausted from the day’s labor, but smiling again.

“Wait until I tell the others,” he said.  “First we saved a whale, and then we battled an army, and then we had to dig all the way to China!”  Bert was almost sorry to see him go, but it was time to light the lamps and Angus was half asleep already.

“And…and…I will be good,” Angus said, as Miss Minchin joined them to collect him.

“Of course you will,” Bert said, for he felt proud of how far the boy had come.  Angus looked at the ground again, then turned and ran inside.  All in all, it was a good day.


	3. The Thief

Spring was in full swing some two or so days later and it was the perfect kite flying weather.  Bert was in the park, kites in hand, ready for the eager customers out and about to enjoy the warm weather.  It had rained the day before, and half the day before that, and people were eager to stretch their legs on the unusually fine, if windy day.

“Hello, Bert!” called an excited voice, and then young Michael and his sister were hurrying over to see him.  Michael was holding something in his hands with great care, though the wind was clearly determined to have it, and he had to hold it tight against his body or it would have been gone in a moment.  The children’s father followed along behind them, holding onto his hat and smiling at his children’s enthusiasm.

“Hello Michael, hello Jane.  Mr. Banks,” said Bert with a tip of his hat.

“Call me George,” answered Mr. Banks, and then he paused with a slightly worried look, until Jane whispered to him, “That’s Bert.”

“Alright then, hello George,” said Bert, pleased at the unexpected invitation.

“You’ve inspired quite a passion in my son,” said George.  “Not a career, by any means, but do you know, I think he is quite good.”

And then Michael was unrolling the thing in his hands that turned out to be a bit of paper with a drawing done on the front.  It was, in all honesty, a child’s drawing, but the potential it hinted at spoke of hidden talents.

“Amazing,” Bert said, “That is this very park, as I live and breathe!”

“Yes,” said Michael, glowing at the praise.  “And that is us, of course.”  And it was…after he pointed it out.  “And there is Jane, in the flowers, and that…”  There was a black smudge that might have been a person.  In fact, it quite cleverly looked like a person in motion.  This might have been skill on the artist’s part…or lack of skill that happily aided him in this instance.

“I suppose that is our little friend that made such a mess of your first work.”

“You said I should use the…the mess to make art, so that’s what I did.”

Of course, that wasn’t at all what Bert had meant, but he wasn’t about to tell the young artist that now.

“Wonderful!” cried Bert. “This is a real treasure.”

“And I kept all your chalk safe,” Michael said, starting to go for his pocket (where they’d undoubtedly made a mess of the fabric, but then, who could see inside someone’s pockets?).

“And deprive an artist of his tools?” Bert asked.  “Keep them.”

“Forever and always?” Michael asked.

“Well…until they’ve been used up at least.”

“I wonder where chalk goes when it’s used up,” said Jane.

“Into the drawing, of course,” said Michael.  “You always think the strangest things.”

“Well, you’ve shown your masterpiece,” said their father before the two could start squabbling.  “Why don’t we try our hand at kite flying?”

Bert gave Michael back his drawing and held up one of his kites, saying, “I have a beauty right here.”

“We’ve got one,” Jane said, “Only we left it at home because Michael was sure we wouldn’t fly it.”

“I can’t fly a kite,” said Michael.  “My drawing will blow away.”  And he held it up as though to prove it, which in fact proved it all too well, because a sudden gust tore it right from his hands and sent it spiraling into the sky.

“Oh, oh!” he cried, reaching for it, as though he could ever reach high enough.

“I’m on it!” cried Bert, and he leapt in pursuit.  He ran, and the picture danced ahead of him, now alighting on the ground, only to be lifted anew just before his fingers could grasp it.  The children tried to follow, but he and the wind left them behind in the end, for Bert was able to leap over some hedges that they had to go around, and he was long gone by the time they did.

Finally, the picture caught on a tree and Bert nabbed it at last.  It was rather tattered, but mostly fine, and he rolled it up and tucked it away inside his coat for safe keeping.  He was about to turn back and find the children to inform them of the good news, when he heard the laughter.

He knew that laugh.  He didn’t know why, but he did.  And it was coming from high up in that very tree.  He looked up, and up, and there was a boy.

Jack, he thought, and then, perhaps unfairly, what mischief is he up to?  On the other hand, Jack shouldn’t be in the park alone; when the orphanage children came to the park it was always in a group, or at least accompanied.  And, it must be said, that it was in that exact moment that Bert made the connection between the soot covered art vandal and the boy laughing high in a tree.  Bert was not inclined to give Jack the benefit of the doubt.  What was he up to?

Bert listened, heard birdsong warbling above, and then he saw the nest.  And he saw Jack reaching into the nest, while a mama bird swooped around his head and her babies shrieked in terror.

The boy was robbing hatchlings from a bird’s nest.

There is mischief, and then there is just plain _wicked_.

“Hey!” shouted Bert, some rare ire in his voice, “You let those birds alone!”

This was extremely, and rather unfortunately, effective.  The boy startled at the shout.  The mama bird swooped once more at the intruder, startling him in the other direction.  And for the first time, Bert saw exactly how precarious Jack’s hold on the branch was, just a bit too late, as the boy tumbled right off it.

It was a high tree, and the boy was falling head first and Bert didn’t think he’d ever moved so quickly in all his life as he _reached_.  Later, he’d say it almost felt like flying.  Well, perhaps he did, a bit.  It _was_ a windy day.

Heart beating in terror, Bert had Jack in his arms almost before he understood the boy’s peril.  The force of it almost knocked him clear off his feet, and there was a long moment when both were too surprised to do more than just breathe.

Then Jack started to squirm a bit, and Bert flipped the boy over (he’d caught him upside down, of course) and set the boy on his feet and then just sort of looked him up and down, holding him firmly in place while his heart settled into a less frantic pace.  And as Bert came to understand what hadn’t happened, that the boy was fine, his anger returned three times the stronger for the scare.

“What were you thinking?” he shouted.  “You could have died!  And for what?  Stealing babies from an innocent songbird?!  Well?  What have you do say for yourself?!”

The boy stared up at him with wide, shocked eyes, one hand clinched into a tight fist and the other pulling nervously at his own shirt, and he still didn’t say a word. 

“Well, Jack?” Bert yelled at him, and the boy sort of tensed, shrinking away, and in that moment all the anger and the fear drained from Bert, leaving behind a horrible cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.  It was not a nice feeling, and one Bert rarely felt, but he was human and he did know it from time to time as all humans do: shame.  Because all at once, Bert knew this situation intimately, the grown man leaning over the child, demanding words, except now the world had flipped and _Bert had become his father_.

Before he could let go of Jack, or apologize, or try to explain, a feathery ball of fury dove about his head with a warbled war cry, and he was so startled that he let go of Jack completely.  And Jack was off like a shot, and Bert was left standing by the tree, wondering what had just happened.

The anger returned in the end.  Because Bert was only human, and anger is easier than shame, and, after all, Jack was the one in the wrong.  Theft was never a good trait in a boy, but stealing babies from their mama…that was reprehensible.  Jack hadn’t deserved the fall, of course, but it did serve him right to have a bit of a scare.

And he stole Angus’s bread.  And he got into fights.  And he was the little art vandal who destroyed their work and laughed.

And he had scared Bert half to death.

“It’s okay,” he told the bird, who was determined to drive him away, now that the little thief was gone.  “Your babies are safe from me.”

And he went back to find Michael and Jane.  This took some time, for the park was a large place, but he did find them in the end, and showed Michael his drawing, still safe and sound (though slightly more creased than it had been to start; catching Jack hadn’t been good for it).

Michael was so pleased to have it back at all that he only looked a little disappointed that it wasn’t absolutely pristine.

“Thank you, Bert,” he said, because he was a polite boy who knew his manners.  At least he did after his sister nudged him a time or two.

“No problem,” said Bert.  “I enjoyed the chase.”  Which was true, except for the ending, and Michael didn’t need to know that the same little boy responsible for destroying his first artwork was also responsible for his second being a bit smashed.

When they got back to the kites, they found Mr. Banks, apparently having the time of his life, handing out kites to passersby.

“It’s not banking,” he said as they approached, “But it will do.  Here you go, er…Bert.  Your profits.”

And then he went kite flying with his children after all while Bert looked after Michael’s drawing.  At the end of the day, when he tried to give it back, Michael looked surprised.

“Why, I drew it for you!” he said.

And Bert was so touched, he might have been admitted to have teared up, just a bit.  Now there was a polite little boy who cared about others.  Not at all like that Jack.


	4. The Truant

It was raining over the park; pouring in fact.  The few people who went out anyway walked quickly with their heads down.  It was not the right sort of weather for playing a bit of music with your hat out.  Which was a pity, because Bert had been playing around with a new song, and when a song got inside of him, there was nothing to do for it but sing it out.

He could have sung it to the empty park anyway.  The birds might have appreciated the show.  In fact, birds were the main stars.  But Bert was no more fond of a soaking than the next guy, especially when it was not quite warm enough out to enjoy being wet.

Luckily, Bert knew just the place to have a large and rapt audience who would give him an honest critique on a dreary Saturday morning.  He headed to the orphanage.

Miss Minchin seemed glad enough to see him.  Having some fifty young children under your care on a rainy day was no easy feat, and though she’d wisely given them all chores to keep them out of boredom and mischief, she was a rare one who knew children needed fun to balance the work.

The children were thrilled as well.  They gathered in the cafeteria, because it was the largest room.  Bert looked around at the children, picking out the ones he knew best while smiling for all of them.  Angus, he noticed with some surprise, wasn’t with his usual friends.  He was sitting with some of the younger boys, Freddie thankfully well enough to be among them.  Jack, he noted, wasn’t there at all.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” he said, and the boys liked him enough to actually listen and they did go quiet.  “Now, I’ve a new one to try out on you.”  There were some cheers at this, until he raised a hand to remind them to be quiet.

__  
Oh, the robin’s breast is red as can be  
_And the blue jay is a true sight_  
_A peacock has a proper fan_  
_But the penguin wears black and white_   
  


_Oh, you should see a hawk dive through the air_  
_And how graceful is the swan_  
_The ostrich can run like you’ve never seen_  
_But the penguin just waddles along_   
  


_Oh the parrot speaks like a human being_  
_And the skylark warbles aloud_  
_The night owl hoots and the great eagle screams_  
_But the penguin hardly makes a sound_   
  


_But I tell you my friend the best of birds_  
_Is the true and noble penguin_  
_For he dances like no other bird you’ll see_  
_And you should see him swim!_   
  


Bert would like to think that the laughter and applause was a testament to his performance, but he knew at least half of it was down to the boys’ fondness of him and their readiness to be amused.  Still, it was not a bad way to spend a rainy morning, and he followed the song with another, and then a story, until Miss Minchin came back to say the cook wanted them all at table for their meal.

“And you’re welcome to join us, of course,” Miss Minchin told Bert.  Never too proud to pass up a free meal, they dined on simple but wholesome food, all nice and hot while the rain beat down outside.

It was after, when Miss Minchin had the children working on their schoolwork, that Bert thought to ask after Jack.

“I noticed he wasn’t with the group,” he said.

“What?!” cried Miss Minchin.  “Oh, not again!  That boy!  I’ve had more trouble keeping him where he’s supposed to be.”

“Likes to run off, does he?” asked Bert.  That would certainly explain his unaccompanied trips to the park.

“I send him to school, and as often as not, I get a call saying he was sent into the hall for punishment and has vanished.  I send him to peel potatoes, and later I find he’s gotten half a dozen little ones hard at work on those potatoes while he reads a book!”

“He makes the little ones do his chores?” asked Bert, frowning.

“Makes?  They cried when I took the potatoes away!  He’s a bad influence, that one.  Oh, I really don’t think I can keep him.  I’ve half a mind to send him away to Australia, and just see what he makes of a kangaroo, so there!”

“Now really…” said Bert, when he tripped over some unexpected obstacle.  The obstacle went clattering down the hall, and Bert hopped about, for he’d hit his toe quite hard against it.  “What was that?”

“I think it’s one of the bricks from the little one’s play room,” said Miss Minchin, only giving it a quick glance.  “They’re always turning up in the funniest places.  Oh, those boys, I’ve half a mind to take them away, and then they’ll learn to clean up.”

“Oh, no need to take away their toys,” Bert said, which was decent of him because his toe was quite sore.  “Boys need…” But then there was a second interruption, this time a noise.  It was a strange noise, almost like a sob or a laugh.

“And who is hiding there?” Miss Minchin said, all too familiar with those sorts of giggles from hiding children, and she swung open the door to what proved to be a closet.  Inside were mops and brooms and buckets and a small boy, dusty and dirty, who tumbled right out at Bert’s feet.

“Jack!” exclaimed Miss Minchin, for it was the missing boy indeed.  “I should have Known.”  And she had the little miscreant by the ear, muttering about baths and hard labor.  Then she turned to Bert, who, it had to be admitted, was trying not to rub his own ear in sympathy, much as the boy deserved it.  “Thank you for visiting us,” she said.  “I’ll have to ask you to see yourself out while I give this one what he has coming to him.”

Feeling slightly unsettled, though he didn’t know why because Miss Minchin was strict but fair and the boy did need straightening out, Bert went on his way.  It continued to pour and he thought about trying his hand at selling matches.  In the end he just went home.  He supposed it was the rain; too much rain made anyone feel melancholy.

It had been a nice morning, anyway.


	5. The Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should hold off on posting this until tomorrow (two posts in one day is a bit much, even for me) but truth be told I actually wrote the bulk of this chapter before I wrote chapter 4, and this is the bit everyone is really waiting for, so...here it is. The conclusion.

A few days later, during sunnier weather, he tried his new song in the park.  It did well enough to pay for his supper at least, and he enjoyed the smiles.  The song made him think of the orphans…and Jack.  There was something troubling about one so young causing so much mischief.  Was he just a bad one?  Bert had never really believed that any child could truly be bad through and through.  But he’d yet to see or hear one good thing about Jack.  In his deep secret thoughts, the one he was ashamed to admit to, he wondered if perhaps it would be best if he were sent away.  He just didn’t want to imagine him leading some good boy like Angus astray.

He couldn’t say why he chose to return to the orphanage that day.  Perhaps, in his heart of hearts, he wondered if Jack didn’t just need a bit of guidance...and Bert wasn’t his father and he wasn’t the world’s best role model in any case…but perhaps if he took the boy out for the afternoon, got him to try a bit of work he couldn’t skive off from for a change, maybe had some words, man to man…well.  He hadn’t quite decided what he was going to say when he found Miss Minchin in her office, but whatever it was, he never got the chance.

“Oh, are you here for Freddie?” she asked.  “The doctor says it’s just sniffles, but we all _know_ how he gets and the doctor insists he’s to stay in bed, poor boy.”

So instead of asking after Jack, Bert found himself going to the infirmary where little Freddie had his own little corner that Bert rather feared the child saw more of than his dormitory bed.

“Mr. Bert!” he said when Bert walked in, and his voice was a little bit raspy but otherwise he looked spirited and wide awake.  “Did you come to visit?”

“Of course I did,” he said.  “I see you’re getting on with your lessons.”  For the boy had several books and a slate strewn about the bed.

“Miss Minchin said it was the best,” said Freddie, a bit glumly, but then he smiled and, with a secretive sort of air, he pulled back his covers to show a different book.  “But I have this, too.  It’s all about Jack and the Beanstalk and he fights giants and there’s a girl all covered in soot, like a sweep, and she marries a prince!  Only…don’t tell Miss Minchin.  She wants me to read about imports and, and, poems.”  And the boy made a face.

“Oh, I wouldn’t knock a good poem,” said Bert.  “Why, poems are sort of songs without the music.”  But he could see Freddie wasn’t convinced, and anyway, he hadn’t come here to play teacher.  So he looked about for a better topic of conversation.  He noticed, then, an odd bit of cloth on the bed, next to the secret book.

“And what is this?” said Bert, who recognized a cherished stuffed toy, even if this one was practically rags.  “A new friend?”

“It’s a penguin!  Just like in your song.”

“So it is,” said Bert, and once the boy had said it, it did have a sort of penguin-like feel to it.  At any rate it was the right colors, and it did have the two eyes.

“My friend gave him to me.  He made him himself!  Imagine that.”  And the boy looked down at his penguin with great awe, as though he’d been given the most life-like replica imaginable.

“That must be some friend, to make something like that for you,” said Bert.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Freddie.  “Jack is my best friend in the whole world!”  And then, when he saw Bert’s shocked face, he kindly added, “After you, of course.”  And he looked a bit worried, in case he had hurt Bert’s feelings.  Bert quickly tried to force his face into something kinder, and it seemed he succeeded because Freddie smiled again and hugged his penguin.

“Freddie,” said Bert, once he was sure he wasn’t going to choke on his own words.  “So, Jack is a good friend, then?”

“Oh, yes,” said Freddie again.  “He’s always telling funny stories, like _you_ do, and he can stand on his head and he snuck me my book and once he threw a loaf of bread all the way across the room right into Jamie’s hands!  Jamie was so surprised and it was so funny.  Only we aren’t supposed to throw food, of course, and Jack got in trouble.”

“Well, Freddie, I should think that stealing bread is enough reason to be in trouble,” Bert suggested, trying to keep his voice light and not show the anger and worry that troubled him.  Jack was not at all the sort of boy he’d want Freddie to think highly of.

“I suppose it is,” agreed Freddie.  “That must be why Miss Minchin took Angus away too.  And that wasn’t really fair, because it was _Billy_ who stole the bread, only he gave it to Angus.  But Angus _did_ laugh and he didn’t give it back.  So Miss Minchin took him away with Jack.  And Jack wasn’t allowed bread for a whole week!”

There was a long moment of shocked silence, during which Bert completely failed to speak.

“…Freddie,” said Bert at last, slowly and carefully, as something unpleasant began to curl inside him, “Can you tell me exactly what happened that day, when the bread was stolen?”

“But don’t you know the story?” Freddie asked, a little bit confused.

“Pretend I don’t know anything,” said Bert, and to himself he thought, because I’m beginning to think I don’t.

“Miss Minchin had gone into the hall, and Cook had already left, and Billy came over to our table and said he and his mates were big boys so he needed more food than little babies do.  And he grabbed Jamie’s bread.  Most of us know you have to eat fast, just in case, but Jamie is little and he was too slow.  And Billy laughed and brought the bread back to Charlie and Angus and Rob.  And they laughed too, and Billy gave the bread to Angus and said, ‘Go on.’  And do you know what?”

Here, the young storyteller leaned towards Bert a bit, as though to impart a secret.

“Jack says he didn’t think Angus wanted to, only he said Angus wanted to be Billy’s friend.  But Angus did laugh, anyway.  And then, why, Jack jumped up and he grabbed that bread and he sent it across the room all the way back into Jamie’s lap.  And Jamie was still crying, and laughing, and it was so funny!  Only Miss Minchin had come in and she shouted, ‘Jack!’ and she dragged him away for throwing food, and then she called Angus to the hallway because she must have thought _he_ stole the bread, and he came back with a whole new loaf and he gave it to Jamie too, so Jamie got two loaves.  And…and I know I should have told her it was Billy only…only Angus laughed and he didn’t give it back so he _did_ steal it.”

“…And Jack never said anything about it?”

“He said that she was angry about the bread, and…” and here, Freddie was whispering again, “And Jack isn’t good at speaking.  He says his voice gets all trapped, and if people are shouting then he forgets his words.  He’s always in trouble at school for it. They're always sending him out.  And I asked if it was like my air gets trapped sometimes, and he said ‘sort of’ and it doesn’t sound nice.  And it’s funny because he can speak to _me_ just fine, but he says that’s different.  He says I don’t laugh at his words sounding funny or get angry if he uses the wrong word.”

“I see,” said Bert, who was beginning to fear he saw things all too well, and that feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t going away.

“And it was alright,” added Freddie, “Because we found out Angus is nice after all, and…and maybe he wasn’t going to eat Jamie’s bread, because you know what?  He split his own loaf in half all that week and gave half to Jack whenever Miss Minchin wasn’t looking!”

And of course Bert understood, probably much better than little Freddie did.  No wonder Angus had acted so oddly that day he’d taken him out.  If Bert had been able to hear his words, spoken into his coat, he’d probably have gotten a full confession.  Because of course Angus wanted the older kids to like him; Angus was always getting into trouble trying to impress the wrong sort.  And he was a good kid, at heart, and of course he felt guilty.  And yes, he should have told Bert or Miss Minchin the truth, but Bert understood.

Angus was a child, and he made a mistake, and Bert understood, even if he was disappointed.  Bert, however, was an adult, and he should have known to look deeper, no matter what things looked like on the surface.  So squirming on the inside, Bert cast around for something to change the subject, not wanting his whole visit to turn gloomy, and his eyes alighted upon a feather sitting by Freddie’s bed.

“You must be very fond of birds,” said Bert.  “A penguin and a bird’s feather?”

“Oh, Jack gave that to me too!” said Freddie, smiling at his little feather.  “And he told me the funniest story.  He was in the park…” and her he paused, suddenly giving Bert a guilty sort of look.  “I mean…”

And Bert knew that Jack wasn’t supposed to be off in the park alone, and Freddie probably thought he’d gotten his friend in trouble, but that wasn’t the reason for the funny look on Bert’s face.  Bert tried to look a bit less troubled and a bit more cheerful and said, “Go on.  What’s the funny thing that happened to Jack in the park?”

“He said it was the windiest day ever in all the history of the world, and the wind blew him all about.”  Here the storyteller waved about his arms gleefully, probably in imitation of when Jack told the story to him.  “And suddenly he heard a cry for help!  And he ran to help, and do you know what he found?  Why, a little baby bird had been blown right out of its nest!  And it was too little to fly, and its mama was dancing around and crying for help.  So Jack picked up the baby and he looked up and he saw the nest, and do you know, it was the tallest tree he’d ever seen, and that nest was right up at the top!  But the Mama was crying and the baby was crying, so he climbed and climbed, and he almost fell, and the wind pushed at him the whole time, and he crawled out on the branch, and now the wind wanted to push him off.  But he held on tight.  And he put the baby in its home!  And the mama bird was so, so grateful that she gave him a feather for his very own, and he gave it to me!”

And Freddie reached over and stroked his little feather with great awe.

“And…and did Jack get down safe from the tree?”

“Oh, that’s the funny part!” said Freddie.  “Why, he was about to climb back down when the funny park man shouted at him!  And he was so surprised that the wind finally swept him right off the branch, and he says he flew down to the ground just like the baby bird, and right into the funny man’s arms!  And the whole world turned upside down, he says, and the tree was hanging from the ground and he could see the clouds far below his feet and it was the funniest thing!  And the man shouted at him, and I said he sounded scary…but Jack said he was trying to protect the baby birds and he _saved_ him from the naughty wind, and, oh, he had another funny story about the man!”

“Did he?” said Bert, and this time Freddie didn’t seem to notice that Bert’s face had gone all strange.

“It was when I got so, so sick, after the mean man wanted me to go up the chimney,” said Freddie cheerfully, and Bert had to say, “Wait, hold up…what mean man wanted you to go up the chimney?”

“On the day Miss Minchin let me be apprenticed out for the day, of course,” said Freddie, confused in the way all small children were when they knew a thing and someone else didn’t.  “She wanted me out with the window cleaner only…only I swapped so I could go with Jack and we went with Mr. Johnny the chimney sweep.  And he said I was only to watch, and that wasn’t really fair because Jack got to go up into the chimney and he said it was the most marvelous funny place he’d ever been to, and he got right up to the roof and he could see all of London!  And he looked black all over, and I thought Miss Minchin would be angry, but then I remembered she _couldn’t_ be because she sent him out to be a sweep herself!

“Well, we went into a big grand house, and Mr. Johnny went to talk silly with the cook and Jack was all up and down the chimney, only one room had this tiny little chimney and Jack said it was too small even for him…and he’s not really all that big so it was very small.  And Jack coughed and said it was no good, and that mean man, he came and said I was to go up, because I was the perfect size!  And I said Mr. Johnny told me I was only to watch, and _he_ said I was a lazy good for nothing and if I didn’t go up he’d whip me!  And do you know, Jack took his bucket of soot and dumped the whole thing right over his head!  And the whole room was full of dust!

“That mean man turned all red, and I think he wanted to whip Jack, but Jack ran away.  And Mr. Johnny came back and said, “Oh no”, and I started coughing and he took me back to Miss Minchin and I was sick all week.  And Jack came to visit me and he said the mean man never caught him.  And he said he ran through the park, and do you know what he saw?”

“What?” asked Bert, who rather had an inkling, but at the same time rather thought he didn’t.

“He almost ran into that funny park man and a little boy, and do you know what he saw?  On the ground in front of him was the most beautiful paintings.  There was a clown, and there was a forest, and there was a green man wearing a yellow hat!  And he said he’d come out of the dark chimneys and run forever, barefoot too, because shoes were hard in the chimney, and that was waiting out in the park the whole time, like magic!  He says there are beautiful things everywhere, if you keep your eyes open, even when bad things are happening.”

“Jack sounds like a smart boy,” said Bert.  In his head, he was thinking, Jack looked ahead at the art.  He didn’t look back, at the part he’d destroyed.  He looked ahead.  How had Bert not noticed that before?  How had he not noticed anything before?

“So just think, the same funny park man drew paintings and then saved him from the wind when it blew him from the tree!  And he _knew his name_!  And he’s not only at the park, because he stopped Billy and his friends when they wanted to hurt him.  And he let him out of the closet when mean old Billy stopped the door!  So he says the funny man must be a sort of good fairy.”

It was safe to say that Bert had never felt less ‘good’ in the entirety of his life.

“And do you know what?” Freddie said, as though only just remembering a happy fact.  “Jack is going to bring me a kangaroo!”

Bert must be admitted to have stared blankly at that.  “A kangaroo?”

“Yes, see, he heard Miss Minchin say she was sending him to _Australia_ , and he said when he came back he’d bring me a kangaroo.  They live in Australia, I think.  And he said he thought it was quite far away to go, and it might take him days to come back, but he’d bring the kangaroo with him.”

“…Excuse me, Freddie.  I think I need to go…somewhere.”

“To Australia?” Freddie asked with a bit of a laugh.  And to the small boy’s surprise, Bert answered, “If need be.”  And he ran out the door.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I probably should write another chapter to actually bring Jack and Bert together. And I probably will. So why mark this as complete? Because I've come to the end of the story. If I do write more of a conclusion, it will either be a bonus chapter or a separate work entirely, depending on which direction my muse goes. I'm pretty sure we all know what happens next anyway.


End file.
